


Beast

by mrhiddles



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Berserker Thor, Intersex Loki, Jötunn Loki, M/M, female Laufey - Freeform, male Farbauti
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 05:21:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2609963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrhiddles/pseuds/mrhiddles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a Tumblr prompt: Thor is some ancient magical creature that Loki accidentally wakes up.</p><p>--</p><p>"Loki wonders how long such a blaze would last and keeps on."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beast

**Author's Note:**

> I realize I hardly ever talk about my blog here or the fact I do more art than anything else, but I have a fandom blog [here](http://mrhiddles.tumblr.com/), my art blog [here](http://boltplumart.tumblr.com/), and my new main blog [here](http://boltplum.tumblr.com/).

The tales are old as Jotunheim’s old witches. They are whispered by grey-bearded old men who wear grey cloaks and rune-speakers who only know the words of plants and trees. They are spoken by leaders, kings and queens who would see their children to bed so that they can take to council.

They tell of a great golden beast, lying in wait to snap up any who are brave enough to dare pass its musty den. Children are taught to fear the wind for it is the heaving breath of lungs carved out of iron, the dome of its ribs large and barren. That when the earth shakes it is because the mountain is hungry, for the mountain—the land—is he and he the land. They are one and the same, and when a mood should strike the beast, the beast should deign to pick either slumber or destruction.

He has not been seen in a thousand years.

Loki is determined to prove this fanciful story for what it truly is; a myth.

“The journey will be difficult,” Laufey tells him. His mother is gazing hard at his face and under her stare it's hard to feign anything but annoyance. He's more than prepared for the trip.

“All can see the tip of the peak from the palace. It is simple enough,” he scoffs.

Laufey pinches the skin of his wrist, tuts at him. “You’re not stupid, so do not pretend to be. The path is dangerous. You will be fooled when you think you know the way and when you have the correct path, it will be not as it is. There are many creatures beyond the capital and—”

Loki huffs and grips her hands with his own, lowering them. Laufey has always had a stern face, but the familiar deep set brow is bent downward, there are lines about the mouth. She looks worried. It’s enough to give him some pause. Contrary to what most think of him, he is not monster enough to so distress the one who raised him.

“My sweet mother, you know just how to calm a child.”

She rolls her eyes and drags a hand free to slap him on the arm. “You bothersome creature, I should have buried you soon as I saw you.” But her tone is fond and he knows it is simply her humor showing.

Silence falls between them and then they are simply staring at one another. Centuries he has lived in the household of his mother and now he is leaving on his first true excursion outside the palace walls—that his sire and mother, and most of the court—are aware of, at the very least.

It is honestly the farthest he will have traveled yet. He yearns to visit Asgard, but has not the strength to manage the feat just yet. Travel is a long and arduous task when done with seidr, and can break one’s mind if tried too soon. Loki has no desire to drive himself mad, not just yet.

“Be safe, boy,” Laufey tells him, pulling him from his thoughts.

He inclines his head, kisses her knuckles. “I will return. Do not worry yourself overmuch.”

He gathers his furs and saddles his leather satchel across one shoulder. It sits firm at his hip and he can feel with each step the way his belongings jostle about.

With a final nod, he parts from his mother, and his home.

\--

He does not visit Farbauti.

But Loki knows Farbauti is aware he has gone. The King is most likely celebrating his bastard finally leaving home, no longer the bother he has been, especially of late. He has kept no secret in his leaving, has flaunted the fact entirely.

All in Jotunheim know of his goal to disprove the mighty legend of the golden beast that breathes the land into new shapes.

\--

Loki knows it is a lie bred into life by bored tongues, wagging inane nonsense to the wind for there is rarely anything else to do. Especially outside of the capital. Jotunheim has its lower lands and the giants that inhabit them are mean and crueler still. Cold as the salted sea.

Loki dislikes his distant cousins and so he avoids them the best he can.

He wants to make this journey a quick one.

\--

It takes only a little to hide himself from eyes keen to pry. The villages are full of them, a daft lot fit to lurking and wondering.

He wanders close to the sea, closer than he ever has before. It has been three days since he left and he has yet to sleep or eat, knowing there is always more purpose in walking than ceasing to move. Motive is easily lost along the barren winds of this realm and Loki knows it’s a dangerous thing to lose your way, easy as it is. The snow sets to clotting vision, ruins the mind, makes you think up is down and down is up. All manner of ridiculous things.

He kicks up loam, watches it be whisked away into the dying froth of the surf. It seeps back into the deep with some dark meandering, bent upwards towards the sky, reaching with terrible long arms in the deep abyss of endless waves and then surges back ashore impossibly thick, smelling of salt and sulfur. He knows if he were to strike a bit of coal-bark, let the sparks drift down to dance at the water licking his heels, the whole sea would be alight in moments.

Loki wonders how long such a blaze would last and keeps on.

\--

He stops after a week of travelling to rest. He feasts on ice flowers and salted salmon, the beastly thing large enough he surmises the remains will stretch the remainder of his journey. The scales are big, enough to act as tableware if the thought struck him. He ties three of the scales together and packs what meat is left away. The rest he tosses to the sea, watches the salt dissolve it all into bits of foam.

Lying back, Loki only intends to close his eyes for a moment but then he is waking, body stiff and slow. It’s almost hard to breathe and he wonders how long he slept.

Days, he thinks.

It takes a long time but he finally manages to head off again, the snowy peak of the mountain ever distant and terrible.

\--

Three weeks in and Loki is starting to consider his mother may have been right.

He has since escaped a pit of tangled moss which had the mind to reach sluggish limbs towards him until he tripped and was sent spiraling down.

Only three hours past that he was stung by a large bark beetle. He despises them for their large tusks sink inches past the skin, seeking bone, and will not release you lest you smash them where they lay.

His arm is stained in blood and the ashy remains of beetle, his legs burning from the clinging moss yet still he pushes on.

The mountain looms, still so far away.

\--

Sometimes he thinks there is a great heaving creature following him. It’s in the wind, he knows and yet.

The wind howls after him as he dodges sand sludge and the great ravines. There _are_ creatures there, and Loki knows them and what they can do to a wandering Jotun well. They say the Aurochs tusks are enough to gut an Aesir lord.

For days there has been thunder booming distant in the sky. It's strong enough to shake the ground, though he can’t be sure if it is the strength of the sky alone. The frost beasts cling beneath the ravine, slashing stragglers with their pointed tails. A fate he is not so privy to.

Then on a night particularly dark he sees the sky light up. An explosion of cracker-light, firing through the clouds in electric threads. He sees the distant shape of a fist swinging a club and feels his stomach tremble.

The peak of a close mountain is snapped clean off, falling with a great rumble to some distant valley he cannot see.

Loki’s stomach empties itself onto the icy ground, the knowledge he is now in the thunderous land sitting rotten inside him.

\--

Loki knows storm giants are not easy targets, and harder opponents. He is not fool enough to think he can best one, never mind how small he is. These giants, ones who can cleave a mountain in two with their fists, are frequent killers of Asgardians. Farbauti had always been jealous of their numerous successes.

He keeps to the shadowy coves the wind has graciously carved from the ice for miles, for weeks. Avoiding beings whose sight is equal to the clouds turns out to be an easy thing.

\--

Loki figures it will be another week before he reaches the heart of the mountains.

He settles in, digging a small tunnel of snow out for himself.

He falls asleep humming, the snow a steady rumble beneath him.

\--

It is mid-afternoon when he next wakes.

Loki’s first thought is _what in the nine realms is roaring so loudly_.

His next thought is _why is it so close_.

When he blinks the sleep from his eyes he sees a burst of firelight dance at his knees. He darts back, rolling along his neck and shoulders to something like a crouch. There is a battle before him and _curse him_ for not grabbing his pack before leaping away.

A crack of lightning dashes the ground and swallows the shallow cove in blinding light. Then there is the same roar, a metallic grinding, sonic along the wind and bending the light up, back into the sky.

Loki must force himself to focus on what it is exactly that he is witnessing.

A man, no taller than him, hefting some sort of iron contraption high above his head. Then the light is made into a dome, descending upon them too fast to dodge. Loki lets out a small shriek, thoughts shattering, words that can explain this gone from him, fled like the stars from the sky.

But then the shadows grow—and those are fingers, yes, that is a palm, a giant’s hand—grasping the lightning and shoving it back at them.

The man lets loose a battle cry, swinging his arm and the hammer—and of course it is a hammer, how foolish he must be for not noticing earlier—hitting the large hand away. The mountain shakes, a rumble from the gut of some faceless storm giant they cannot see.

Loki feels a hum in the air, almost a scent reaching up into the mind, not unlike copper and arsenic. Quick as a flash it is everywhere all at once and then it is gone. Loki’s head is pounding.

He eyes the hammer, it’s richly leathered pommel, then the thick fingers that envelop it. It leads to a muscled arm, veins rippling where the warrior tenses his grip, and Loki realizes too late that the man is nude.

The man seems to sniff the air, eyes peering into the dark, searching for his enemy. Yet there is nothing but the cry of wind and the soft pattering of snowfall. Another moment passes and then the stranger turns on Loki where he's still crouched. Loki gathers a small blade of ice, not trusting the blank stare that is flooded with light. His eyes glow above the barest twitch of his lips and Loki can see battle-lust in his face.

Loki’s gaze slips when the warrior takes a step towards him. The man is half-thick between his thighs where his cock swings as he walks and Loki boggles at it. A true lust for bloodshed is not something he’s ever witnessed before, and much less is it something to so boldly put on display. The man doesn’t even spare a thought to trying to cover himself.

Something dives deep and sharp towards Loki’s belly at the shamelessness of the warrior, his thoughts a flurry for who he is and just what the hammer in his hand is exactly. For why he could be here, fighting storm giants and _winning_.

Up close, Loki sees the stranger is pale, unlined, his hair as yellow as faraway suns he’s seen illustrated in children’s stories. The light has not faded from his stare but his lips have parted.

Loki feels lightheaded, his stomach rolling, his mouth filling with saliva.

Before his eyes roll up, the last he sees is a small frown.

\--

Loki wakes to hands on his face.

He recoils, startled, and the stranger staggers and falls back on his rear. He looks surprised, abashed. Then he lowers his eyes and Loki wants to say _no_ because they’re blue, so shockingly blue.

“You’re not of Jotunheim,” he says instead.

The other says nothing. Instead, he crosses his legs. He’s sitting on a fur, large and plush. Some sort of bear, Loki suspects. The hammer sits beside him some feet away, humming that steady drone. Loki is perplexed by the thing. He wants to know more.

The cave they’re in is not large enough to stand in, but is wide enough and goes far enough back that should they fancy themselves enemies at the end of this, there will be room for a scuffle. Loki peers out the opening and sees only sky stretching on forever. They are too far up for him to think about scaling down the peak of the tallest mountain, and he wonders how they even managed to—

He starts laughing.

The stranger raises his eyes, narrowing them.

“What do you find so humorous?”

Loki simply laughs harder. Tears spring to his eyes for how hard his lungs are working.

“You are in quite a pleasant humor,” the stranger huffs at him.

Loki slowly calms himself. He sits up, noticing his pack is missing. Lovely.

He studies the warrior. Long golden hair that reaches past his shoulders, lingers in soft waves at pale nipples and ties off in odd braids near a navel bent with worry. When he draws his eyes back up, the man is hunched, his shoulders tense, his gaze perilous.

He is as unsure of Loki as Loki is of him. The thought puts him at ease.

“I am Loki, Jotunheim’s bastard prince.”

A twitch of a blond eyebrow has the stranger confused. “How can one be both bastard and prince?”

“Because I choose to make myself known to my father’s court rather that succumb to the quiet life of a nameless child. Because I can outdo the threats he sees fit to send me should I talk out of line one too many times.”

“Bastard in name and employ, amusing.”

“And you hide naked and pale in a realm not your own, fighting giants of the sky. My place is hardly any more amusing than yours, you goblin.”

That makes the stranger laugh, loud and hearty.

“Now you are laughing.”

He shrugs. “You’re not wrong, little Loki.”

Loki puffs his cheeks. “Little, am I? You must be blind, we are of a size.”

He shakes his head. “I have met your father, as I have met many other Jotnar. Yet you sit here, fitting in a cave small enough for my kind.”

“And what is your kind, exactly? How long have you been here?”

He grows quiet then, and Loki sees a storm in his eyes.

“Do you make a habit of terrorizing the locals?” Loki asks him, mockery clear in his tone. “I set out to find a beast made of gold, not some pink cock-swinging lark wiling the years away in a cave fighting giants.”

“You think it my _choice_ to be here, on a barren rock,” he rages, voice echoing along the walls. Tendrils of light flicker over his skin, painting him in jagged blue hues. “You come here seeking a beast, and you doubt you have not found one in me?”

“Aye. For what beastly thing have I seen from you?”

The air steams with the electricity roiling off of him. Tiny bolts of lightning lick at the ceiling, the floor, the walls. It dances before Loki’s skin and he must lean back to avoid it.

Then something shifts in his face and Loki switches to crouching, unsure of what is about to happen. He smiles and then the warrior is tackling him.

Loki is grappled to the ground, where he kicks and twists and arches beneath the immovable body of the other. The warrior flattens him, dragging his arms above his head and leans his face in. Loki can just make out the blue of his eyes as he brings his face impossibly close, nudging his nose along the slope of his cheek.

Loki goes quiet, heart a rabbit’s beat behind his ribs.

The lightning transfers to his body, itching along his skin, dancing over the bare skin of his chest, dipping below the leather throng draped around his waist. In their struggle the warrior threw a leg between Loki’s thighs and he is painfully away of just how close they are.

“Your name, you ghastly thing. What are you called?”

Lips tickle in a slow drag across his cheek, the dip at the corner of his lips, then rest at his chin. Loki feels stubble rasp at his skin and he jerks at the sensation, his legs falling wider apart.

“Thor,” he whispers, just before licking a strip down Loki’s throat to pause and suck at the skin.

Loki lowers his chin, making Thor stop altogether. Then he's rising up, asking for Thor's mouth. Loki did not expect kisses to be on his journey but he is not sorry they are.

“Show me, then,” Loki growls, smirking.

Thor releases his arms to reach for his throng, tearing it apart and letting it fall open, unconcerned with everything but the flesh slowly thickening beneath him. Loki rolls his hips and he hears a low moan in result.

His hands busy themselves with Loki’s prick, enveloping him in slow strokes, lifting his flesh and making Loki work to prolong the aching contact. But Thor pauses when he sees what lies below and Loki rolls his eyes.

“What, never seen a cunny before?”

Thor rumbles a laugh, low and deep in his chest. “Quite the contrary, he murmurs, before leaning back down for more kisses. He releases Loki to lay one arm beneath his neck, the other busy between his own thighs. Loki feels Thor slick at his entrance and he arches up, wanting everything.

Thor sucks on his tongue when he thrusts inside, a slick glide, Loki tearing at his hair viciously as they take no time to still or acquaint one another with their bodies. Thor is a noisy mess above him, full of lovely sounds. Grunts and moans and breathy sighs, a full scale of sounds and Loki revels in them. He squeezes and gropes and anchors himself for every thrust with his heels dug into the ice, Thor unraveling in his arms above him.

And then the lightning is back, for the storm has not ceased, merely meandered. It laces over Loki’s skin and he feels suddenly as if his heart has burst, every knot coming undone inside him. He clings, legs tense, soaking their stomachs. Thor spills deep inside him, pushing almost painfully deep and Loki wonders for a moment what a prince and a storm can conjure out of life.

And Thor shudders, stays there. He has yet to cease spilling and Loki feels too full, a stream of fluid surging back out around from where he lies pierced. Thor is whispering things to him, at him, Loki is not sure. It is in a language he does not know. All he knows is that he is spent and Thor is a foreign entity to him, breath gentle against Loki’s hair, cock full inside him. His breath seems to rattle the world, reverberating through the cavern’s floor, truly a creature of nature. For he is a beast, a god of beauty at least, a terrible malevolence at best. This thunderous lord that is pouring out a storm across his skin.

“How did I find you?” Loki finally manages once his breath has returned to him.

“I heard humming…or something like it.” He presses a kiss to Loki’s cheek.

"What are you?"

“A god of thunder,” Thor tells him, words gentle at his temple. “Forgotten by all but little bastard princes it seems.”

Thor laughs and it is joyful.

Loki counts every breath as it leaves the god above him.


End file.
